


New Normal

by thesignsofserbia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Truckload of Guilt, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, John is a Saint, Lack of Communication, M/M, Mention of torture, Night Terrors, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Reunion, Sherlock Loves John, Sherlock is not a sociopath, Sherlock's scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 16:20:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13551057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesignsofserbia/pseuds/thesignsofserbia
Summary: His heart is not the same, and nothing can take that back. Actions rewired normal, and this new normal…it twisted all perception. Sherlock’s life has changed, and normal right along with it.Maybe he can do it again.





	New Normal

**Author's Note:**

> So I seem to have the writing bug at the moment. Standard reunion fic, you know the drill.

 

Normal.

It’s a word that never quite made sense to him. A social construct based on relativity. But what _is_ normal exactly, what does it look like? Sherlock’s not sure there is such a thing. The definition talks about conforming to the status quo, no deviation ‘from the norm.’ But in all his life, no one has ever been able to give a satisfying answer as to what _is_ normal. Only that _he_ isn’t.

His life _is_ different to most peoples,’ he thinks differently; he did invent his own profession after all. It’s a fact; Sherlock is _not_ normal, which is just as well really, because the whole thing sounds quite spectacularly dull.  But that’s normality on a social level, as relative to others. As an individual, it’s about comparison within our own lives. We all have our own versions of what is normal for us, and everyone’s normal is different.

The question he needs the answer to is personal; what is normal for _him_? What does normality look like for Sherlock Holmes?

He’d like to say Baker Street; cases with Scotland Yard, tea, dressing gowns, and greasy Chinese takeaway at 2am; his life with John. Only, 221B was home for just 18 months. It became so by adjustment. How long does it take for that status quo to change, a month, six, a year? What then, do the past few years mean for him?

The world looks the same. Another day, another breath. Like he never left at all.

But Sherlock _did_ leave, he deviated a long way from that norm; spent two years without it.

Maybe somewhere along the way, a new one was forged.

His _heart_ is not the same, and nothing can take that back. Actions rewired normal, and this new normal…it twisted all perception. Cases are a thing of the past; his world is kill or be killed.

Sherlock’s life has changed, and normal right along with it.

Maybe he can do it again.

~

Sherlock spends nearly two hours in the shower, shivering then too hot, knowing he’s probably going to be here for a while.

No one else is here; no one to stop him, and he probably wouldn’t listen if they tried. So the shower runs, the meter ticks, and the bill goes up and up. Mycroft will take care of it; or he will, when the water’s cut off. It doesn’t matter.

It’s not that he’s angry, and the pain is manageable now. Sherlock is all out of anger, and he’s all out of fight; mostly, he just wants the world to piss off and let him sleep.

He misses John, that part never goes away; not in any corner of the world, but especially not here. John is the exception to the ‘piss off’ rule, so of course, he is also the only one taking it seriously.

John needs to take his time. That’s natural.

An understandable reaction.

It’s good to think things through.

Fine; it’s absolutely fine.

He could go on and on; justifications, delusions, denial.

In the end, that doesn’t matter either; Sherlock needs John _now_. Because _nothing_ is fine, and John could make it all go away. John will snap Sherlock’s brain right out of this, and he’ll be better. Damn evidence based practice; the placebo effect is a beautiful thing. Sherlock doesn’t care why, or how, or where; John Watson can fix him.

Sherlock wills John to burst through the door, right here, right now. They can start over fresh; no hiding, no running away. No more mistakes. They can work through it; have an honest, adult conversation. They’ll argue, they’ll bicker, but they’ll make concessions, and build back that trust. They’ll talk more, really talk.

It’s something worth fighting for, because they can _fix_ this, they _can_ ; they can be _happy_. Sherlock truly believes it, and he’s investing everything he’s got. All John needs to do; is be here.

In a perfect world he would, the timing of Sherlock’s need would coincide to the second with the timing of John’s actions. He’d just appear, and Sherlock wouldn’t even mind that he’s naked; because someone would care.

~

A reporter asks him for the latest developments, but to be honest, John hasn’t got a fucking clue what’s going on. It’s a bizarre dream; one minute he’s nobody to anybody, and now he’s a bloody celebrity, _again_ , as if the first time wasn’t bad enough.

Everyone wants to know how he feels, but John is still trying to believe it’s even happening.

On Monday, he walks into the surgery as normal, and everybody stares. He’s not sure if he should be angry, or explain that he had no idea, but of course, he can’t do either. Because the world is insane now, and colleagues he could joke with, or lament about the weirdness; now any one of them might just go straight to the media.

John almost just turns and walks back out. But that would make it even harder to come in next time, and if there’s one thing he isn’t; it’s a coward.

So he says a mild good morning, and tries to pretend that it’s just another day. They say hi back slightly cautiously, but no one tries to needle him.

His first patient is a regular; just in for a new script. When the surgery is busy, she can frustrate him with her need to chat, but today, he lets he talk as long as she wants. Margaret is old, she doesn’t use social media, and is much more interested in Coronation Street and her army of grandchildren than anything the papers have to say.

She’s completely oblivious to his fame.

With the others, he’s not so lucky. Most don’t ask the question directly, but they peer at him like a lazy cheetah in a zoo; waiting for him to move. A couple of them have absolutely no shame, but he flat out dodges questions, and uses a firmer hand than he might.

They’re busy, running constantly behind, and a doctor short. It ends up being a ten-hour shift, and it feels like the longest of his life.

Not everyone has a Holmesian trust fund and the ability to will cabs out of thin air, so John trudges down the road to the tube station, flicking the occasional ‘no comment,’ to the woman with the tape recorder.

On the tube it’s just as bad, but he does his best to ignore it, and ends up ordering a take away so he doesn’t have to brave the trip to Sainsburys.

John goes to bed early, and gets up 50 minutes after he should.

The world is still nuts, and he’s still just as numb and confused as he was yesterday.

~

Sherlock is bored, but even after four hours of it, he still can’t find the energy to do anything.

He once read an article about sleep debt; a very common phenomenon. You get up for work early every day, getting an average of six and a half hours sleep, then on weekends you crash for ten; the body catching up on rest.

Perhaps that’s why he’s so tired. It’s unclear how much debt it is possible to rack up, or when it expires, but if he has two years’ worth of two to three hours a night, he might be sleeping until March.

He takes up recreational napping; an hour of half-sleep once or twice a day. Night times are a novelty; insomnia’s first holiday in 37 years. He still owes his body more than he can count.

The conversation he and John will inevitably have is going to be intense. Sherlock _wants_ to tell him, tell him everything; to share what, for months on end, he never could out loud. But so much has happened, and somehow, he must put it into words, comprehensible sentences; make sense of what, even in his own head, is just one giant blur of hell.

Perhaps his mind chooses _not_ to remember it all; only the parts that can hurt him the most.

Because Sherlock is disgusted by many of the things he’s done, and the man forged by it. Because in the end, he had a _choice_. Logically he knows that he did what he had to, but no one forced him, and he could have stepped back at any time.

You can’t deliberately kill a human being in cold blood, and then plead innocence after the fact. You just can’t.

In his mind, it was justified; they needed to die, it was _necessary_.  He repeated it, every day in his head, necessary _, necessary, **necessary** ;_ as if that would somehow make it right. But the literal truth opposes and exposes even the most intricate of lies. You can’t out run reason, and facts will not hide forever; he should know, it’s the very foundation of his career.

Necessity means inescapable; imperative, essential. The definition states that a necessity is something that _must_ be so, by virtue either of logic or of natural law, it cannot be avoided; an action that must, and _will_ take place.

Sherlock is not ignorant, he’s not self-deluded, and he is not a fool. Necessary, like normal, has two sides; the literal form, and the perceived. Everyone has something, someone, they can’t even entertain the _thought_ of living without. But there are only four, basic, fundamental aspects to human survival; food, water, clothing, shelter. The rest is physically, theoretically; nonessential.

He is one person in a world of seven billion; and _he_ is _not_ necessary. Not to anyone but himself. If he died, if John, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, all died; that world would keep spinning.

Killing himself that day at St. Barts would have brought about only one casualty, and the outcome would have been the same. Surviving in exile for the rest of his life; _no_ casualties, and still, the story would have played out relatively unchanged. Three people would live, and his mission to protect them would be a success.

There is _always_ another way. Sherlock just chose not to take it.

He hunted them down, sought them out, chose the pigs for slaughter. That is the truth. Necessary for the mission though it may have been; it was _his_ mission, he planned those executions, he calculated all of it.

People only died because _he_ wanted them to. They died to protect the people _he_ cares about.

All those people killed, to preserve only three. He took them, because Sherlock deemed their lives to be _less_ _important_. Because Sherlock wanted to come home.

If it’s about balance, Sherlock owes his body hundreds of hours sleep, but he owes the world _life_ ; dozens of them. How many hours is that? Just how many hours are in a human lifetime?

It’s a debt he could never begin to repay.

And he was rewarded for it; because didn’t he _win_? Didn’t he get everything he wanted?

For everyone else, the only prize is grief; John, Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson, they grieved his loss for two years. Sherlock came back to them, but there are countless more across the globe; families mourning loved ones who never can, and never will.

Setting out, from day one; it was a conscious choice. Sherlock got on a plane to pick out and kill people. And that, is exactly what he did.

~

He makes a point to look himself in the eye every day. The mirror is his self-punishment. He can’t die for every life he’s taken, but each morning, and every night; he can look at his reflection, and see their faces staring back.

Sherlock is no sociopath, he wasn’t born to do those things; but he adapted to the point where death became clinical.  It was _normal_. As promised, Sherlock Holmes did not disappoint; he has become exactly the man James Moriarty wanted him to be.

Because despite the guilt, the selfishness; in the same circumstances, Sherlock would take those lives again.

He hears him laughing in his dreams. Jim is proud, victorious; having unlocked the parts of Sherlock he’d been so very desperate to see. Moriarty wanted him in many ways; his brain, his body; to own, to dominate, to _possess_.

Moriarty dreamt of the twisted star-crossed lovers, who, in even in death, could never be apart. Together forever. It’s the ultimate prize, and Sherlock let him take it; offered up his soul with a handshake.

Sherlock promised to meet him in hell, and every night; they sit and have tea in silence. Moriarty’s delight is haunting.

~

When they do meet again, Sherlock and John are both as tired as each other.

“So you’re really alive then.”

This time, it’s John who comes to Sherlock, but Sherlock doesn’t slam the door in his face. Sherlock has waited days for their timing to click. But now John is here, and it’s different to how it was in his head.

They’re shell shocked, still struggling to come to grips with their new reality.

“Yes, I’m really alive.”

Physically, Sherlock is still standing, and for John, he’s risen from the grave. They’re not even angry, just surprised that they’re actually _here_ to have the conversation. Sometimes, getting what you desperately want, but never expected to ever have, is just so incredibly confusing.

“So, what now?”

It’s a good question. How do you find the next logical step in a staircase of optical illusion?

“Would you like to live here, with me?”

John contemplates him seriously.

“I’m supposed to hate you.”

“I don’t hate you.”

John sighs.

“I’m not sure that makes any difference here, seeing as you’re the one who destroyed _my_ life, not the other way around.”

It’s a fair assessment, but in a way; John motivated Sherlock to destroy _himself_ right along with him.

Because something about John, it made him care.

Sherlock is an unmaterialistic man, and there’s a lot of things he doesn’t give a fuck about. But he isn’t heartless, and there are a great many things he _does_ care about, it’s just that losing them; it wouldn’t break him.

His violin is as much a part of him as any of his limbs, but even that; it’s replaceable. Sherlock loves his brother fiercely, and if Mycroft died, Sherlock would grieve; but life would move on.

But John Watson?

Sherlock would kill himself in the most brutal and painful of ways, deliberately remain in excruciating agony as he lay dying, scream until the very last millisecond; just to keep him existing. He would do it in a heartbeat.

John Watson is Sherlock’s necessary.

Before John, Sherlock’s heart was a negative space; not barren exactly, just neutral. But when Moriarty _dared_ make a threat against John’s life? Sherlock felt an energy so strong that there was no space left, not for a single cell. He was an explosion.

So he took his life. He doused himself in petrol and set fire to the sky. Because nothing could ever be more sacred. Sherlock severed Sebastian Moran’s throat to the bone as he killed him, dragged his body into the street as a message to other, Moriarty’s second in command.

_You will not touch him._

He stopped answering Mycroft’s calls after that. Because Sherlock was **_angry_**. So angry it seemed impossible; to the point it scared him. White hot; he embraced the feeling; every ember of it burning. He let it take complete control; the fuel that carried him with a frightening intensity. For two years Sherlock stayed angry, until he barely recognised himself.

So he has good reason to be horrified; he’s crossed lines he didn’t know he had. And still he knows; that for John Watson, he’d do far worse.

From another perspective, the past two years certainly seal Sherlock’s sociopathic status in stone, every step only making his foundations stronger. But Sherlock isn’t stronger for all he’s seen; he’s more vulnerable than ever. He dissected Moriarty’s web, and it vivisected him in return; the chambers of his heart sliced open, pinned carefully on display like the butterflies on his mantle.

The utter desperation of Sherlock’s care for John; it burnt Sherlock’s world to the ground.

That’s not John’s fault, he never asked for any of this. You can’t _make_ someone fall in love with you, and honestly, who could possibly _want_ this? Sherlock’s love is toxic. Sherlock’s love _kills_ people.

“Do you? Hate me?”

It’s an honest question, because while it would be perfectly reasonable for John to decide he never wants to see Sherlock ever again; the selfish, egotistical, manipulative half of his brain, is desperately screaming at John to come home.

“You know what? I have absolutely no idea.”

~

It’s another shitty day at work. The major press has died down some, but that hasn’t satisfied the curiosity of the masses. As a result, John is booked out, and most of the patients on his schedule aren’t even _sick_. John actually has to ask administration to take his name off the website, internally apologising to every man in the city unfortunate enough to share the name John Watson.

He thinks about Sherlock a lot, about how very _un_ -Sherlock he seemed. He thinks about him without even meaning to, every second thought. He wonders what Sherlock is doing, imagines him reacting to idiot patients, worries about whether he’s sleeping or not.

As confrontations go, they’ve had two, and both were entirely anticlimactic. When Sherlock turned up on his doorstep; John didn’t even shout. Sherlock _lied_ about his own suicide, and John is more hurt than angry. These things don’t happen, not ever, in any universe, so his reaction was probably a lot more sedate than anyone could have guessed.

He’s been half of a person for two years now, and for the other half to just show up out of the blue? That’s too much to deal with all at once. John never let him past the threshold, and had a hysterical meltdown in the loo.

The media is what forced him to confront it; because by the next morning, Sherlock’s face was _everywhere_.

Just his going to Baker Street made the three o’clock news. It was only when he left, pushing past reporters on poor Mrs Hudson’s front step, that John realised what he wanted. Because leaving, when Sherlock was _right there_ and breathing; it was _wrong_.

Sherlock has come home to 221B, and whether he likes it or not; John’s place is by his side.

~

The medication is non-opiate and non-addictive, something Sherlock welcomes. It’s almost six years he’s been sober for now; the longest stretch he’s been clean since he was a teenager. It’s been hard at times, very hard, to resist the calling; but time after time, even just by a hairs breath, in his greatest pit of apathy; he has fought to pull himself back from the edge. Or Mycroft dragged him back and locked him up, same end result.

The drawback, is that what he does take, is not nearly as effective. Considerable effort was put into his pain management plan, and the doctors did their very best to make him as comfortable as possible, but with his past history limiting their options; there’s only so much that can be done.

There was worry in the discharge lounge; the staff helpless but to watch him go, knowing that it’s not enough, that he’ll continue to suffer. Sherlock goes to bed every night, knowing that come morning; nothing will have changed, and he’ll wake in pain.

That’s not an easy thought. It is at least 70% better, but it isn’t going to fade anytime soon. Malnutrition, dehydration, blood loss, cold, sleep deprivation; they’ve bled his immune system dry. One ruptured spleen later, and Sherlock is officially immunocompromised. This makes healing a tricky process, and he’s progressing far slower than he should.

His mind is tired too, which is why he’s grateful for the logic hurting him. That strength which carried him is wearing thin. Because if someone placed oxycodone on the table before him right now?

He’d take it.

~

It’s only been a few days, and already John begins to see a pattern emerging.

He watches Sherlock fall into bed like he hasn’t slept in weeks, and doesn’t understand.

Sherlock has lots of eccentricities, some better known than others, but this is one John has never seen before. It’s not laziness, or boredom; this is physical exhaustion, to the point where Sherlock _cannot_ stay standing, he just can’t do it.

Slipping under his sheets, he’s often too tired to close the door, and John takes the opportunity to look in on him every now and then. Sherlock is always face down, buried in the pillows; not on his phone, not reading, just _lying_ _there_ in half-daylight.

John is scared for him.

When he’s not sleeping, Sherlock is constantly unhappy, not _completely_ miserable, he just lacks that spark. He keeps up appearances for John’s sake, but it’s almost like he’s not really trying, that subconsciously; he wants John to see.

This isn’t like the black moods Sherlock’s mind has put him through before. Sherlock isn’t dangerous, he doesn’t lash out, or take any of it out on the walls. There’s no mania, no anger, or those disturbingly dark eyes; all things that come hand in hand with his usual lows.

Sherlock’s mental states have always been an enigma, but only a few times has he really thought about it in the context of _mental_ _health_. It’s starting to get that way a little now.

As emotionally constipated as John is, Sherlock is his best friend, and he wants to be a comfort. Even if he can’t help with words, he’s _here;_ to listen, to offer support in any way he can. John wants Sherlock to be able to just walk across the room and say, _help me_.

He wants Sherlock to feel _comfortable_ in reaching out.

They’ve never done these things. They don’t talk about it, and they don’t lean on each other when they need it the most. Old habits; fuck them they’re hard to break.

They do talk, of course they do; and while things aren’t tense, it’s not as effortless as it was.

Living together again is a little awkward, and a bit overwhelming at times. They’ll both apologise for little things, like bumping legs at the table, and pretend to be busy, ostentatiously waiting turns to clean their teeth. They knock now, they respect personal space; just little things that would be normal in any _other_ friendship. Just not necessarily theirs.

John still has moments where he walks into a room and thinks; ‘fuck, that’s really Sherlock sitting there.’

Sherlock doesn’t seem particularly interested in John’s hovering, and even when he knocks on the bathroom door; he still doesn’t get told where to go.

He should be angry at being coddled, but it’s like he hasn’t the energy to care, and John's fussing is just something happening in the periphery. John never thought the world could beat the pettiness out of Sherlock Holmes.

How the hell did it come to this?

~

It’s been about two weeks since John moved back, and he’s watched Sherlock, who is already far too skinny, lose yet more weight. Sherlock does try to eat when John cooks it for him, but it’s only for John’s sake. He’s just not hungry.

John checks on him at four in the afternoon, and this time is different.

Sherlock is properly asleep for once; lying on his stomach, only his forehead on the pillow, cheek on the mattress. And it’s definitely creepy that John knows it’s his favourite position. But then it’s _also_ very creepy to check on your sleeping flatmate five times a day.

This time he dares to venture in a little, and the moment his eyes fall on Sherlock properly; his heart stops. Sherlock is not wearing a shirt, and this is the first time he’s seen him not covered by a sheet.

There’s only one name for it, and it’s a terrible one.

It comes as a shock of the worst kind, because Sherlock Holmes is _untouchable_. On cases, sometimes the suspects manage to hurt him, but they never _catch_ him. It’s John they hold prisoner; other people are the hostages.

Everyone wants to kill him, because they know; you can’t hold Sherlock Holmes captive, you can only lay down the bait. Even if they did, John wouldn’t _have_ to rescue him; he’d be free before they even knew he was missing.

It’s down to two options; Sherlock wins, or Sherlock dies.

So far, he’s had a pretty good streak.

But something has changed.

It’s impossible that someone could chain him, win the power to do whatever they wanted. But at some point, they _have_ ; they held him down and mauled him, and this time, even Sherlock Holmes couldn’t stop them.

Someone strung him up and made him scream. Someone tied him down and cut him open. Someone whipped him like he was nothing more than a feral animal. Someone stood by and watched his flesh _burning_.

And Sherlock was helpless but to let them. There must have been so much pain, and John is extremely grateful for his lack of imagination.

How hard he must have fought to overpower them, how fiercely he must have tried to fight back, how much he must have struggled as they restrained him. But even Sherlock’s strength, his drive, his anger; it hadn’t been enough.

How long did they have him? How long did Sherlock’s defiance last? How long did it take to realise that this time; he wasn’t getting out?

Because the scars John sees were not made over just hours; the healing’s not the same.

And, what _saved_ him? With the injuries inflicted, even Sherlock Holmes couldn’t have run from that, not by himself. Not judging by the soles of his feet; evidence of deep lacerations left behind.

Sherlock would have been unable to walk, maybe even stand. His thoughts would be jumbled by infection. Sherlock is the strongest man he’s ever known, and he’s known many. He’ll fight to the very end; but everyone has their limits, and Sherlock is made of skin and bone, just the same as everybody else.

A high threshold for pain can only stretch so far, and no one could prepare themselves for this level of hurt. He’s a very lucky man, because realistically, he should have died; _more than once_.

That’s not overreaction, and it’s not guesswork; any doctor could identify those surgical scars, and John is not just any doctor. John is a field medic, and he’s seen the worst of the worst. Proximal humerus fracture, radical nephrectomy, splenectomy, _thoracostomy_. Sherlock is missing vital organs. And that’s not even counting whatever else hides beneath.

Their shoulders match now, and there is a large portion of muscle missing from Sherlock’s left thigh. High powered fucking semi-automatic. John has seen far too many bullets rip through friends on the battlefield, and lost even more on the operating table. He never thought he’d lose Sherlock that way too.

_Not you._

John hears the word get thrown about sometimes, to the point where the visceral nature of the meaning is lost. As a war veteran, John finds that insulting.

Torture. Sherlock Holmes was tortured.

John doesn’t want to believe it, doesn’t understand how this could happen. This right here, is exactly what John fought to prevent. He waged war to protect the innocent, his people, his country. This isn’t supposed to happen in the civilian world. This isn’t supposed to happen to Sherlock. Not Sherlock.

John stumbles away into the bathroom, breathing almost to the point of hyperventilation, and has night terrors for the next three days; unable to shake the thought of Sherlock Holmes, alone and injured on the battlefield.

~

John has come home, and his chest feels less tight.

He begged the whole damn universe to bring him here, mentally willing John to help. But unsurprisingly, it’s not the magic fix he’d deluded himself into wanting. John is an excellent doctor, but he cannot read minds. He doesn’t immediately know what Sherlock needs from him, and now he is here in the flesh; Sherlock is no longer able to ask.

Seeing him everyday helps, because at least when John is in his line of sight; Sherlock knows he’s safe. And in the middle of the night, caught in those hours when the world feels a little _less_ safe; John snores loudly enough to make Sherlock truly believe he’s home.

It used to drive him almost insane, but now, it’s just enough to _keep_ him that way. Almost insane. Almost; but not quite.

~

John’s snoring gives way to screams of agony.

It’s not until Sherlock hears his own name, that he knows; it’s happened. John has seen what he was never meant to, what Sherlock tried so hard not to show. It was always going to happen eventually; but it was nice to pretend. Sherlock may have wanted John to _understand_ his pain, but he never meant for him to share it.

He pushes the door all the way open and stands just outside; watching John cry out his name.

It’s hard to see. Preserving the safety of John Watson was a 744 day fight, and his victory undeniable, but the irony is not lost on him. John felt safe then, even when he wasn’t. Now his life is no longer under threat; and John’s mind goes to war in his dreams. Safety is only real when you feel it; two years of work, undone by the impact of a single thought. By a single variable reintroduced; himself.

Sherlock almost turns and walks away. It’s what he used to do.

At the start, John frequently suffered from night terrors. Sherlock would hear his pain, climb to the top of the stairs, and wait, just outside the door. He’d stand there, feet a carefully calculated distance and angle from the crack beneath the door, and he would do absolutely nothing to help.

Sometimes he’d wait for hours, listening to John’s attempts not to cry. He did it to be close at hand if needs be, even knowing that it already was. Sherlock never knew how to respond, or what John’s reaction would be. No one likes an audience when they’re suffering, and there was always the risk of only making it worse. So Sherlock let him keep his fear.

John never called for him before. Things are different than they were two years ago. Sherlock has a responsibility for that pain, for those consequences. And still, he doesn’t move.

Sherlock has dreams of his own now; and he understands what it’s like. And John still has those dreams, only now; Sherlock is _in_ them.

Sherlock just wants to undo the hurt he’s caused.

~

John wakes up terrified, and almost has a heart attack to boot.

Sherlock Holmes’s face is less than a foot away from his own and is staring directly at him.

John opens his mouth to ask him what the audacious _fuck_ he thinks he’s doing, when he feels it.

In his dreams, he sees Sherlock in full camouflage; they’re running side by side through a marketplace. There’s dust in his eyes, and the taste of blood on his tongue. Everything is going to shit. People are dying around them, cut down mercilessly from above.

Sherlock is faster, but he’s deliberately lagging, watching John’s back. They’re unarmed, and Sherlock has lost his helmet, military non-compliant curls dark and as perfectly styled as always.

Then Sherlock goes down.

They fall to their knees under the heat of the beating sun.

There’s blood everywhere and just like that; he’s dying in John’s arms. John is begging him not to leave, but they both know it’s no use. He cradles Sherlock’s face, wiping the blood from around his mouth. Sherlock is smiling at him, but there’s tears in his eyes. Sherlock’s thumb gently caresses his arm as John’s world falls apart at the seams.

This time, John wakes up before he has to watch it happen, but he can still feel Sherlock’s thumb, comforting John even as he chokes on his own blood.

He’s crying like a child, and utterly mortified that Sherlock is here to see it. So yes, he’s angry that Sherlock chooses now, of all times, to forget their new privacy rules. John’s pain is not an experiment, it’s not theatre, and if Sherlock has woken him up for a case; John is going to seriously hurt him.

But Sherlock’s thumb is moving on his arm; back and forth, back and forth, just like in the dream. Dream Sherlock never did that before, and he slowly realises, that he never did at all.

Sherlock has been sitting by his side, doing exactly the right thing. He woke John slowly and gently; right before the worst part.

John stares at him, and has never seen so much guilt in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispers. “You weren’t ever supposed to find out.”

Of course, Sherlock understands exactly. John hasn’t dreamt of Afghanistan for years, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what’s triggered the change.

Choking a sob; John knows this should really be the other way around. It’s Sherlock’s pain he’s feeling. But he thinks of Sherlock choking, fighting harder and harder to breathe through the blood in his lungs; and has no emotional capacity left to be the strong one.

And then Sherlock Holmes hugs him.

It’s not a placating hug, and it doesn’t come from obligation. With the angle, it should be horrendously awkward, but Sherlock manages to make it feel natural, as he presses his face to John’s hair.

Sherlock’s arms make him feel warm and safe. John is absolutely saturated with sweat; his t-shirt is sodden, and he can feel beads of it rolling down his jaw, dripping onto Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock doesn’t give a _fuck_. It takes a special sort of friendship to have unwanted bodily fluids running all over them, and have it not make a difference.

Sherlock doesn’t just hug John, he draws John to him, arms somehow managing to get beneath him. Which should be uncomfortable; but it isn’t.

Somehow, Sherlock knows intrinsically how to comfort him. This sort of thing can be very hit and miss. But _Sherlock_ ; he knows to cradle the back of John’s neck, and to hold his arm tight around John’s waist. He does everything _perfectly_.

Sherlock is a good liar, but John realised right from day one, that he was also completely full of shit. John knows the person Sherlock is, and he also knows beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Sherlock is, has, and always will be incapable of sociopathy on every possible level. In this moment, not even Sally Donovan could doubt that. No one has ever made him feel this safe, no one has ever cared for him like this. No one who couldn’t feel could do this so right.

As John cries, Sherlock doesn’t try and get him to stop. He doesn’t say it’s alright, and he doesn’t remind him it’s just a dream. He lets John be distressed and doesn’t try to lessen his own discomfort. Sherlock isn’t trying to fix him, and it’s exactly what John didn’t know he needed.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything at all, not even as he slides beneath the covers and holds him. John Watson is _spooning_ with _Sherlock_ _Holmes_. Sherlock’s chest is hard behind him, no breasts, no curves, and never has it felt so right. Not with anyone.

In the strangest of circumstances, John falls asleep in Sherlock’s arms.

~

Sherlock loses track of how many times John tells him he was choking on his own blood. Every time he begins to calm down, the thought comes back to him, and so do the hysterics. Sherlock is right here, breathing normally, but John just cannot get that picture out of his head.

It’s not something he’s done before; provide real comfort. Perhaps with anyone else, he wouldn’t be able to, even if he wanted. But he’d do anything to keep John from hurting, and by some miracle, whatever he _is_ doing, it rings true with John.

John’s pain makes everything evaporate, it vanishes as easily as smoke. It’s not a deliberate act, Sherlock’s grief, his guilt, they’re pushed to the side; not gone, just placed on pause.

It’s quite a feat, and if it proves anything; it proves him right.

Before Moriarty, Sherlock would have solved this with a sonata, and they’d be no conversation or acknowledgment of any kind. Sherlock wouldn’t know how to comfort John, he wouldn’t try, and John wouldn’t let him regardless. They’ve come a long way from there, and something is beginning to shift.

It's the turning point he’s yearned for, because Sherlock knows this won’t go away in the morning, not this time, and if it tries, he won’t let it. Sherlock will _ask_ John about it, and nothing will be swept under any proverbial rugs. And at some point, John will ask too, and this time; Sherlock will _talk_. He’ll talk until they’re buried neck deep from the emotional avalanche, and then together, they’ll try and melt the snow.

He believes it can happen, now more than ever.

Nothing will fix what he’s broken, or take away the guilt, but they can still fix _them_ , and that’s a very good place to start. That’s all he wants actually, because Sherlock is in love with this man; and he’s known it from the start. Loved him in many ways, and hopefully, many more to come.

John has settled now, and his face looks a little strange, people’s faces always do while they’re sleeping, with the decreased electrical activity in the facial muscles causing relaxation. Partners always say kind things about watching their lovers sleep, words like beautiful, innocent.

They’re not lovers, partners perhaps, more than friends certainly, but Sherlock looks at John’s face in the night and smiles anyway, not because he looks beautiful drooling into the pillow, but because above all else; he looks safe.

Sherlock sees that safety and finds himself wishing with all he has, that _this_ can be his new normal.

 


End file.
